Celtic Fire(80)

Lucius wondered why he hadn’t been wise enough to cherish Marcus as he was.

If he could, he would take back all the sharp reprimands and replace them with words of love. But now, even if such a thing were possible, Marcus was not lucid enough to understand.

He spoke anyway. “Marcus, get well and I promise you may draw all day if you like. You can burn Aristotle for all I care.”

Rhiannon’s soft voice sounded behind him. “Lucius, I …”

Creaking hinges interrupted her speech, which was just as well. Lucius’s emotions were stretched to the breaking point. Any words Rhiannon spoke to him would surely cause him to snap.

Demetrius’s weary footsteps advanced. The physician came to a halt at Lucius’s side and laid one gnarled hand on his shoulder.

“Can you do nothing more?” Lucius asked him.

“I am at the end of my wits, Luc. I’ve tried all the usual remedies, and some unusual ones as well, yet still the fever climbs.”

Lucius’s brain felt numb. “He will die.”

“Perhaps not. He is young and strong.”

He eased Marcus’s hand onto the bed and rose, scraping the legs of his chair across the tiles. “Don’t lie to me, old man. Is there nothing else?”

Rhiannon stepped into Lucius’s line of vision and placed one hand on his arm. “Lucius.”

He looked at her and his gut twisted. Even haggard from lack of sleep and covered with the stains of a sickroom, she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes upon. He forced himself to remember that her loveliness hid deceit.

“Lucius, I know of an herb not found in the hospital plot. It is the remedy I used when the same illness struck my village last summer. All but the weakest lived.”

He looked away from her, not wanting to trust, not daring to nurture the spark of hope she kindled.

“Why should I believe you?”

“You must!”

“She has no reason to lie,” Demetrius put in. “Go on, girl. What manner of herb is it?”

“My people call it mistletoe. I know of a place—an oak grove fed by sacred waters—where plants of great power thrive. I can bring the remedy to you.”

“Lucius, it is worth a try at the least,” Demetrius said.

He hesitated, but in the end his shoulders slumped. “Very well. I’ll order an escort to take you there.”

“Nay. I must go alone.”

His fragile ember of hope faded. “Do you think me a fool? There is no herb. You would use Marcus’s illness as an excuse to escape.”

Demetrius made a sound of protest. “I cannot believe Rhiannon would do such a thing. She cares for the boy.”

Lucius snorted. “Unfortunately I know all too well how deceptive she can be. No. She’s not to be trusted.”

“Please, Lucius,” Rhiannon said. “I beg you. Let me go before—”

Marcus let out a sharp cry, his spine arching from the bed. His limbs flailed, once again entangling with the blankets. Lucius sank onto the bed and gathered his son in his arms. The boy clung to his neck, whimpering, but his struggles eased with every soothing word Lucius whispered, until at last he lay still.

An eerie peace swept over Lucius. He’d never before cradled his son in his arms, not even when Marcus had been a babe. How was it, then, that the sensation of the young body pressed against his seemed as natural as breathing?

Demetrius retrieved the blanket from the floor and covered them both. “Rhiannon’s remedy is Marcus’s last hope,” he said. “Perhaps she will allow me, if not a guard, to accompany her.”

Rhiannon hesitated, then nodded once.

Lucius dragged a hand across his eyes. It came away wet. “Go,” he said.



Rhiannon tipped her head back and took in the rain-washed scent of the forest in huge, lusty gulps. How she had missed it! She could hardly believe little more than a sennight had passed since Lucius had taken her from the battlefield. It seemed she had spent the better part of her lifetime enclosed by Vindolanda’s walls.

The rain had passed, leaving the promise of summer warm and heavy in the air. Mist clung to the narrow forest trail. The large mare she rode was spirited, but well trained and responsive to her hand on the reins.

Beside her, Demetrius grumbled atop his own mount. “I can’t abide horses. Never could. How far must we journey?”

“Not far,” Rhiannon replied vaguely. “We’ll return before nightfall.” She cast him a sidelong glance. She should leave him now, while they were still close to the fort. If she waited until they neared the Druid circle, the healer might never find his way out of the forest.

She eased toward a dense growth of underbrush, then said, “I’m in need of a few moments’ rest.”